


The Fundamentals of Sciurine Linguistics

by whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl
Genre: Blind Date, F/M, Food, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, New York City, Past Riley/Sam Wilson, Sam Wilson Can Talk to Birds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 05:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12125766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: Sam Wilson was sure about three things: the words Captain America were enough to nab a table for two at the most popular noodle bar in the East Village on short notice, everyone loved a good noodle bar, and ramen was up there with corn on the cob and chicken wings as the worst possible food choice for a first date.





	The Fundamentals of Sciurine Linguistics

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my entry for the Sam Wilson Birthday Bang, with story by me ([whatthefoucault](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com)) and illustration by the illustrious [silentwalrus](http://silentwalrus1.tumblr.com), who is truly excellent in every way.
> 
> Author's note: while this story features characters and ideas best known from _The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl_ comic series, as long as you know that Squirrel Girl's superpower is squirrels, you're good. Happy reading!

Sam Wilson was sure about three things: the words Captain America were enough to nab a table for two at the most popular noodle bar in the East Village on short notice, everyone loved a good noodle bar, and ramen was up there with corn on the cob and chicken wings as the worst possible food choice for a first date. Elegant, it was not. Some messy foods were sexier than others, of course: a swipe of the tongue over an ice cream cone just beginning to soften and melt, or biting into a juicy, ripe peach. And persimmons. Persimmons were hot. Ramen, on the other hand, was all slurping noises and greedily shoveling long noodles into your mouth, lest they be allowed to splash back into the bowl and leave Jackson Pollock trails of soup all over your handsome blue sweater. On the other hand, this place did steamed buns, and other moreish things you could pick up with a pair of chopsticks and not embarrass yourself in front of your charming date. All was not lost.

That was to say, if Sam's charming date actually showed up. He knew he was looking for someone in green, and that Steve insisted they would get along brilliantly.

_That_ was most definitely a green dress that just walked through the front door. And definitely a familiar person wearing it, so definitely not his date. He supposed there were weirder coincidences; after all, it _was_ the most popular noodle bar in the East Village, and green was a pretty basic colour. He resumed thumbing through his twitter feed, and waited.

\---

Doreen Green was sure about three things: she had been expressly instructed to arrive at a popular East Village noodle bar at precisely half past seven, she was meeting a friend of Nancy's who was apparently very handsome and someone she was bound to have plenty in common with, and, for easy identification, she was to wear green.

The hostess greeted her with a smile. I can do this, thought Doreen, I'm normal. Normal. Just a normal young woman with definitely no secret identity having normal noodles with a normal dude because Nancy is making me. Yep, super normal.

“Hi, I'm looking for - ”

“He's right over there,” said the hostess. “The cute one in the blue sweater.”

And there he was, idly stirring what was left of his drink, the ice cubes clink-clink-clinking their way slowly through the watery dregs as the straw circled round them. Wait a minute.

“Sam Wilson?” she asked, because unless she was very much mistaken, that was exactly who he was.

“Squirrel Girl?” he replied.

“The one and only Doreen Green,” she blushed. “How's it going?”

“Uhh, pretty good,” said Sam. “How's... squirrel business?”

“Amazing, obviously,” Doreen beamed. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Actually,” Sam hesitated, glancing down at his phone. “I'm kind of waiting for someone, and... okay, it's kind of a blind date, so I don't know if I…”

Doreen blushed. She would have thought it would be fairly obvious, but then agian.

“I know,” she said, gesturing awkwardly at her dress. “Hi.”

“Ohhh,” said Sam, his eyes growing three sizes in slow recognition. “Heeeeey. Oh my god, please sit down! Let me get you a drink.”

Nancy had been right about one thing: her date was a handsome gentleman, though how Nancy was friends with another card-carrying superhero and managed not to invite Doreen when they hung out was a real head-scratcher. 

“This is weird, right?” said Sam, as he flagged a waiter down. “Mexican cola?”

Doreen nodded. “Yeah, this is a little bit weird,” she agreed. She smiled nervously. Sam smiled back, possibly also nervously. The waiter set down two bottles and straws.

“So…” he began, tapping his straw against the bottom of the bottle, “squirrels, huh?”

Doreen beamed, leaning forward in her seat. “Glad you asked,” she said.

\---

So... squirrels. Sam was acutely aware that this was the first date he had been on, at all, with anyone, since, well. Since Riley, his brain reminded him, as though he was likely to forget. It was hard to say whether it was easier being someone he knew (albeit from work, and not very well) or more awkward.

Doreen was considering the menu carefully. Sam noticed the way she scrunched her nose from time to time, perhaps at a dish she found unappealing. A few pale freckles dotted their way across her nose and cheeks. It was cute.

“Do you want to split an order of kimchi?” she asked.

“Sure,” he agreed. It occurred to him now that not only was ramen - slurpy, slurpy ramen - possibly not the best choice of early-stage date food, but that any cuisine as laden with pungent flavours as this admittedly justifiably well-regarded noodle bar was, was probably not the best choice when planning an evening that may well culminate in one finding one's face in very close proximity to one's date's face.

(Not that Sam was presupposing that there would be a kiss. Was that too forward for a first date anyway? For all of his ease in most social situations, dates - especially blind dates - were somewhat uncharted territory. He and Riley had never _dated_ , not exactly: there had always been a distinct lack of intimate wine bars and charming coffee shops on a tour of duty, for some reason. Instead, he had found himself lost in Riley's kind eyes, fumbling together in the few quiet moments they managed to steal when there was no more important work to be done and no one to interrupt them, dreaming of the life they would build together. But that was so long ago now, and so far away. Before that was college, and college - contrary to popular belief - was less up all night having joyous drunken encounters with beautiful ladies and gentlemen, and more up all night dragging a half-dry highlighter pen across so much of his textbooks that more text was bright yellow than not. Was dating even something normal people did?)

But, if kimchi was happening, he was loath to turn down the offer. And then the waitress was with them again, and ready to take orders.

“I'll try the pork buns and the spicy cucumber salad,” said Doreen, handing over her menu. “And we'll share an order of kimchi.”

Steamed buns, at least, were a reasonably sensible, safe choice: self-contained, not too messy. No chance of getting miso broth all down the most expensive sweater he owned in front of someone cool.

“Can I get the mushroom bun with the pea shoot salad?” he asked.

“You got it,” the waitress agreed, taking their orders back to the kitchen.

Doreen sipped her drink.

“Do you ever just find it weird trying to have an actual life while... avenging?” she asked, leaning on her elbows, face balanced in her hands.

“You know what the worst thing about it is? Everybody assumes I've got, you know, crazy money,” he replied. “I fly coach. I don't have a washer-dryer in my apartment. But if somebody's seen you on TV fighting an army of flying robots, they assume you make serious bank.”

“You fly coach?” she puzzled. “But... you have wings.”

“Yeah, I don't trust my GPS not to screw up over the middle of the Pacific,” he reasoned, “and the inflight entertainment gets pretty repetitive.”

Doreen nodded. “I mean, I can't _fly_ fly, but I can jump - maybe not quite across oceans without help,” she said, “maybe if I practiced. A lot.”

“Please... please don't attempt this,” said Sam. Granted, Doreen Green had been known to achieve incredible things with mostly the power of positivity, but still.

“Maybe if you rigged up, like, some kind of squirrel catapult system,” she theorised. “But I've got lectures to be in on Monday, so let's put this on the backburner until the semester's out.”

Sam was at a loss for words. So he nodded. And he stirred circles through his cola with his bendy straw.

“I mean, I don't know if we should,” she continued. “Can you imagine trying to explain a squirrel catapult system to customs and immigration once I landed in... whatever country it landed me in? What if it landed me in North Korea? I am not prepared for this contingency, Sam. I've... I've never taken down an oppressive regime by myself before. I’m not saying I couldn't do it, but I can’t see it being easy without a plan, can you?”

“I really can't,” agreed Sam. That had escalated quickly. Doreen shrugged.

\---

“You know why they set us up, right?” asked Sam, as the waitress set their plates down at the table.

Doreen thought for a moment. “Animal friends,” she concluded.

“Animal friends,” he agreed. “You talk to squirrels, I talk to birds... I get the rationale.”

“So you speak bird?” she asked him, spearing a slippery cucumber slice with one chopstick. It was not worth the risk of wrestling it between two chopsticks, having it slip out from between them, and land on Sam's nice blue sweater, she thought. It looked soft. Like, _expensive_ soft. He suited blue. 

“It's more of a telepathic link,” he explained.

“You should come down to the lab at ESU,” enthused Doreen. “We could 3D print you a syrinx. Then you could _talk_ talk to birds!”

“Yeah, but would I still be able to speak human?” asked Sam. It was a fair question, she thought. “Because you know like 90% of the time, I need to be able to speak human.”

“Maybe you should stick with the telepathic link,” Doreen agreed, sprinkling a little extra garlic sauce onto her pillowy steamed bun. Oh no, she thought. Garlic sauce, on a first date, but it was too late. She would flag down the waitress at the next available opening in the conversation, and order another soda. And chug it. And then order another one. And chug that one. Just in case. Nothing says “please never speak to me again in your life” like ruining a polite end-of-date kiss with the pungent punch of lingering garlic, she thought. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

Then, without a word, Sam carefully slid the garlic sauce from her side of the table to his, and poured a little spoonful over his shiitake bun.

“Good stuff,” he smiled.

Doreen had sworn, in no uncertain terms, that she was over dating, especially after that whole... whatever it was with Tomas, and Tomas' girlfriend, who had had the audacity to be way too nice for Doreen to resent, though that, she swore, was all but forgotten now. Dating was boring, liking people was pointless, and Doreen was a strong, independent computer scientist who was mostly content to spend her Friday nights watching documentaries about vikings and stuff with a big bowl of ice cream, her awesome roommate Nancy, and Nancy's awesome cat Mew. And it was hard to say whether attempting a date with a fellow superhero was better or worse than a date with someone without superpowers. But Sam was nice, and she knew Sam... kind of. Not that they had worked together very often; indeed, she had never had the opportunity to notice how nice his eyes were when unencumbered by a super costume.

And the pork buns were perfect. This was a nice date. Dates were okay.

\---

“... and that's how I defeated Galactus,” said Doreen.

“Well done,” said Sam. If it had been anyone else, he would have doubted the power of relentless positivity to take down literally the devourer of worlds. But Doreen? There was something so disarmingly sincere about her that _of course_ she defeated Galactus, he thought. “You're…”

“Unbeatable,” she smiled. “That's basically my whole thing.”

“Man, why didn't I make that my thing?” Sam mused, as he flagged the waitress down for the bill. It was a good thing.

“But you've got a good thing,” asserted Doreen. “You fly, you talk to birds, you're brave, you're compassionate, you've got a really nice smile…”

“... seriously?” The waitress handed him the card machine, and nodded in apparent agreement with Doreen. Sam could feel himself blush. “... thanks.”

Doreen cleared her throat, staring at the table. It was hard to tell in the restaurant's weird lighting, but she might have been blushing, too.

“Coffee?” she suggested. Coffee sounded perfect, if nothing else, then to perform an exorcism on the garlic demons still possessing his taste buds. That garlic sauce was stronger than a vibranium sledgehammer.

“Coffee sounds amazing,” he agreed.

“Great!” she enthused, taking him by the elbow. “I know a place.”

\---

The bakery was not far, and was a favourite of Doreen’s, for long-haul coding sessions when the library felt too oppressively serious, and the apartment too full of distractions - because why further your education when you can bingewatch Masterchef Australia and make a soufflé, apparently, according to Doreen’s brain. The coffee was always good, dark and smooth like good golden toast, and the baking was the best she had found in the neighbourhood - once, she swore she had even seen Steve Rogers there on a date with his boyfriend. Nice couple, those two.

Sam found them a table in a quiet corner while she ordered them coffees, surprising him with a little plate of macarons.

“What’s all this?” he grinned, eyebrow raised in surprise.

“There's chocolate, dark cherry, hazelnut and coffee, passion fruit, and pistachio - that one's for Tippy Toe,” she explained.

“That’s your squirrel friend,” he confirmed. “So, are you like, part squirrel?”

“Mostly the tail,” she said, giving it a little shake. “And the squirrel skills. And I mean, I do eat a lot of nuts, but they're an excellent source of energy and essential fats and minerals. And they’re delicious. Cherry, or passion fruit?”

She shook the plate of macaroons at Sam.

“Cherry,” he said without hesitation. She took a generous bite out of the passion fruit; there was something almost transcendently good about that balance between a crisp outer shell and the chewy interior.

“So are you part bird, or…”

“Ah, not really… it’s complicated,” he replied. “But I feel like, ever since the first time I flew, it’s exactly what I was meant to do, you know?”

“It’s a good superpower,” she agreed.

“It's a good tactical advantage in a fight, but more than that,” he said, sipping his coffee. “When you're up in the air, you can see so much: rivers flowing into the ocean, lakes and mountains, all the little houses and streets and trees. You can see how everything is so connected, and so random, and it's all so beautiful from up there. It's a good place to go to clear your head; it reminds me how much I love being a part of this world, and why I work so hard to protect it.”

Doreen nodded. There was something so beautiful about hearing someone so passionate talk about their thing. She could tell she was smiling like an idiot.

“I think I know exactly what you mean,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” he replied, letting his eyes fall closed as he took a first bite of his macaron.

But just then, there came such a horrible clattering crash from the alley behind the cafe that it awoke both their super heroic instincts simultaneously, and they ran toward it.

“You were saying?” she asked, as they made for the door.

So much for deep, meaningful, passionate conversation well into the night.

\---

Much to Sam’s dismay, there was Redwing, engaged in heated combat with a small but surprisingly strong squirrel - oh, hell no, he thought. Tippy Toe.

“Back off, both of you!” Doreen warned them, stepping between the squirrel and bird.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, you guys,” cautioned Sam, as Redwing came to rest on his arm.

“Hey, hey,” said Doreen, as Tippy Toe climbed onto her shoulder, still agitated from the dust-up. “What the heck is going on here?”

Tippy Toe replied with a long sequence of frantic and loud squirrel sounds.

“Tippy Toe says that falcons eat squirrels,” Doreen explained. “She says it was self-defense.”

“Redwing, please don't eat Tippy Toe, she's our friend,” Sam told his avian familiar. Redwing shook his feathers. “Ah, okay, I get it. Doreen, tell Tippy Toe it's cool, falcons eat mostly smaller birds, pigeons and grouses and stuff, not squirrels.”

“See? He's not going to eat you,” Doreen reassured her, producing the macaron she had been keeping safe in her pocket. “It's pistachio, and it's for you.”

Tippy Toe sighed heavily, casting a suspicious glance in Redwing's direction. She appeared to agree, accepting the soft biscuit. Within the space of a few miliseconds, she had managed to nibble the entire thing into her mouth. “Mmmf mmm mmfff mm mmmmf,” she said.

“You're welcome,” Doreen smiled, tickling Tippy Toe just under her chin.

Redwing watched them with apparent curiosity, then turned to Sam. It was hard to put into words, oddly enough, how he talked to birds: somehow, they just understood each other. This was sometimes more useful than others - like at four in the morning, after a long day, and the pigeons have converged on his balcony to discuss at length which nearby restaurants have the best discarded leftovers.

Redwing cast him a withering glance.

“Sorry, man, the bakery was fresh out of ptarmigan,” shrugged Sam.

Redwing gave a disgruntled squawk, which meant:

“Seriously, man. You know what there is to eat in this town? Pigeons! Always pigeons. I am so tired of pigeons.”

“I know, dude,” Sam agreed, “I know. It's hard to find good game birds in this town. Are we cool?”

Redwing replied with a small series of high-pitched screeches, which meant:

“Yeah, I _guess_.”

“Redwing says we're cool,” explained Sam.

“Cool?” asked Doreen. Tippy Toe seemed to agree. “Tippy Toe says we're cool too.”

“You know, maybe we should call it a night,” said Sam, dragging a hand tiredly over the back of his neck. This could have gone better.

“Hey,” protested Doreen, smiling. “We haven't finished our coffee.”

\---

“Do you think those two are going to be okay?” asked Sam. Doreen was grateful that the coffee was still warm.

“Yeah,” smiled Doreen. “I can probably find pheasants or something at the farmer’s market. For Redwing.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” agreed Sam, knocking back the last sip of his flat white.

“If you want, Tippy Toe and I can teach you some phrases in squirrel, in case you ever find yourself in a disagreement and we’re not there to translate,” offered Doreen. It came as no surprise that the hazelnut and coffee macaron paired well with her latte, and that little bit of nubbly hazelnut in the meringue was such a comforting texture.

“Maybe,” he agreed. “The telepathic bird-link isn’t really something I can teach, but if it ever comes up, uhh…”

“I’ll send you a text,” she suggested.

“Cool,” he said.

\---

It was a short walk from the bakery back to Doreen’s, where Sam could see Tippy Toe, lurking in a nearby tree like a judgmental parent.

“Well, this is me,” she said. “This was nice.”

“Yeah, it was.”

He chuckled awkwardly. She smiled and shrugged. Mirroring each other, they extended their arms, leaning in for a hug. But they both leaned to the same side. He attempted to swerve back in the other direction, but she swerved too. Maybe they should just kiss after all, he thought. But was a kiss too forward, too full of expectation? They laughed again. He had not kissed anyone, not properly, since -

Which was _years_ ago, he reminded himself. The whole point of his agreeing to go out in the first place was because he had spent so long not being ready he was not sure he ever would be: maybe that was all right, too, and that waiting for some mythical readiness meant not allowing himself to fully heal. It was okay to date again, to let himself be open to new possibilities. Counsellor, counsel thyself, and all that.

And so he compromised, and smiled a polite kiss against her cheek. She blushed. He blushed too.

“Well, have a good night,” he said, turning back toward the street.

“Goodnight, Sam,” she smiled.

He was sure he could hear the whispered squirrel-chatter of Doreen and her familiar as he walked back to the station, but felt he should perhaps be grateful that he could not understand a word of it.

All the way home, he was acutely aware that he had just been on a date, with Squirrel Girl, and it was nice. Now, he found himself at a loss as to how to follow up. As soon as he was in the door, he shuffled out of his nice date clothes and into his comfortable home sweatpants, and stared at his phone. He had to say something. It was polite to say something.

_Thanks for tonight. It was fun._

Nah, he thought. Too bland. It was the unsweetened instant oatmeal of texts.

_Thanks for a great night. Maybe you can teach me some key phrases in squirrel sometime._

Too forward? He _had_ had fun, but whether he was ready to relationship-date was something else entirely.

_I'm sorry my bird attacked your squirrel_

and then his thumb hit send. OH SHIT NO DON'T SEND, he panicked, I WASN'T READY, NOOOOOOOOOPE. But it was done. Before he could decide whether to send a follow-up, those little three dots started bouncing on Doreen's side of the conversation.

_Tippy-Toe might forgive you... eventually._

_What about you?_

_We're good. Let me know if you change your mind about squirrel lessons!_

_Yeah, it was nice hanging out with you_ , he typed, then paused. Then continued. _We should do it again sometime._

_Sure thing, bird person._

\---

“Sure thing, bird person?” Nancy read over Doreen's shoulder. “Dare I ask?”

“Well, that's why you set this up, wasn't it?” asked Doreen, cringing internally that she had just typed and sent the phrase _bird person_. “He's got an animal friend, I've got an animal friend, and I mean it's not like that's never gone disastrously wrong for me in recent history, so…”

Nancy took what sounded like a very tired breath. “Hang on a minute,” she said. “Are you telling me that he's got... a bird thing? Am I seriously the only person in this city who doesn't have a secret animal-related alter ego? When's my animal power going to manifest?”

“But Nancy,” protested Doreen, “you've got one of the most special animal familiars of all! Mew!”

Mew was contentedly ignoring them both, chasing a discarded strand of knitting wool across the carpet.

“Oh yeah?” asked Nancy. “What's my superpower, the ability to be woken up in the middle of the night by a cat who's decided that the most comfortable place in the apartment to sit is directly on top of my face?”

Doreen flopped down onto the sofa.

“Your best superpower is being my best friend,” Doreen reminded her. “I still can't believe you've been friends with a card-carrying major super dude this whole time and neglected to mention it to me, though.”

“He seemed like a nice, normal guy,” Nancy shrugged. “He's got a nice beard, he's interested in healthy eating... all good stuff.”

“All of this is true, but also he talks to birds?”

“This is completely new information to me,” said Nancy, placing her coffee mug in the microwave.

“Nancy, come on,” insisted Doreen. “It's his whole deal! He's... Falcon! One of the most super people I know! With wings!”

“Ok, Doreen, you know the whole superhero world even better than I do. I don't know what this guy said to try to impress you but... You've met Falcon. I've met Falcon. And his name is Sam,” said Nancy, taking her now-steaming coffee back out of the microwave. She gave it a careful sniff, and poured it into the sink.

“Yeah, I know,” said Doreen.

“And the guy I set you up with is named Rafi and he's a Master's student who works at the campus gym,” said Nancy. “You know, always puts extra almond butter in your smoothies?”

Oh, thought Doreen.

“Oh,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Uhh, Nancy, I don't think I went on a date with the person you think I went on a date with.”

\---

Sam was not sure what to expect of Steve the following morning.

“So,” said Steve, leaning against the front door frame in that way that only highlighted his almost inhumanly ridiculous shoulder-to-waist ratio, “how'd it go last night?”

Sam gave it a moment's consideration as he laced up his shoes. “Actually, okay, okay, it was pretty fun.”

“See, I knew you'd get along with Carmen,” replied Steve, with all the conviction of someone who truly believed that they were saying words that made sense.

“Uhh, Steve,” Sam began carefully, “who the hell is Carmen?”

Steve stared at him with the sort of incredulous confusion that Sam might have expected if he had told him that he had stood up his date in favour of stripping nude and riding a Shetland pony through Times Square while singing showtunes.

“You literally had dinner with her last night, Sam.”

“Okaaaaaaaaaay,” said Sam, his eyebrow raising by reflex, “if that's true, one of us has been getting her name very wrong, and I don't think it's me.”

“I've been in the same life-drawing class as Carmen for a month now. I'm pretty sure I know what her name is,” argued Steve.

“You're taking a life-drawing class with Squirrel Girl?”

“Squirrel Girl?” puzzled Steve, taking a swig from his water bottle.

“The tail's kind of a dead giveaway, man,” shrugged Sam, as they made their way onto the street at a moderate pace.

“No, I mean, I... didn't set you up on a date with Squirrel Girl,” said Steve. “How did you end up on a date with Squirrel Girl?”

\---

THE EPILOGUE

Carmen Sandoval was sure about three things: the words Captain America were enough to nab a booth at the most popular noodle bar in the East Village on short notice, her date would be wearing a blue sweater, and it would be gauche to order a kimchi scotch egg before he arrived, regardless of how long it had been since lunch. She checked the text again. Yep, blue sweater. Blue sweater, blue sweater, blue sweater. 

“Hi there, are you... ?” said the man in the blue sweater who approached her table.

“Carmen,” she smiled. “You must be…”

“Rafi,” he said, sliding into the seat opposite her. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.”


End file.
